


Beyond the Looking Glass

by clgfanfic



Category: War of the Worlds (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:24:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clgfanfic/pseuds/clgfanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of events in "Return to the Wall."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond the Looking Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine Green Floating Weirdness #11 under the pen name Gillian Holt.

_"First time visits can be a little intense."_

 

Harrison walked through the dew-wet grass, lights from all quarters of the mall reflecting off the slick surface in undulating arcs, casting shadows that raced across the landscape like spiny ghosts.  Walking in the post-midnight damp, the astrophysicist shoved his hands into the pits of his pockets and hunched his shoulders.

          They'd done it.  By God they'd done it.  Against all the odds they'd kept the aliens from turning the tenth anniversary of the Vietnam Memorial into a new war.  They'd won.

          He stopped, huffing in frustration.  _So, if we won, why do I feel so…_   Harrison managed three more steps.  _Angry_.

          He stopped again.  Angry?  Why the hell was he angry?  Damn it.  He knew.  He knew.

          Squinting through the semi-darkness, he stared belligerently at the Memorial.  Images of Ironhorse's face shimmered through his thoughts.  That damned piece of stone had some kind of power over Paul.  And that kind of power scared him, and _that_ made him mad.

          With a determined sigh, he forced himself on, not stopping until he stood fifty yards from the well-lit black granite monument.  A bitter chill swept up under his jacket and left his skin cold and brittle.  Ironhorse.

          Stepping into an umbrella of concealing darkness, Harrison watched, trying to remember to breathe.

          Ironhorse stood on the path that ran in front of the Memorial, shoulders sagging, head bowed.  While Harrison watched, the soldier took a tentative step forward, his head tilting up.  With all the care of a first-time lover, Paul reached out, gently touching one of the names.

          Who was it?  Harrison wondered.  Who holds that much power over Paul Ironhorse?

          Ironhorse's hand pressed flat against the stone surface, and his knees buckled.  He dropped slowly to the wet ground, forehead resting on the Memorial.  Harrison could see Paul's shoulders shaking as he cried.

          It was wrong.  He shouldn't be there.  He had no right to watch Ironhorse's grief, but something kept Harrison rooted where he was.

          After several minutes Ironhorse forced himself up.  On unsteady feet he visited other panels, reaching out to touch.  His fingertips curled slightly, like he was trying to reach beyond the surface and grip hands trapped on the other side.

          Harrison stared at the straining fingers and felt the anger build again.  Why couldn't he understand?  He'd lost people.  People he loved.  Why was it so hard to comprehend Paul's pain?

          Ironhorse's head tipped back.  His eyes were closed, tears shining on the sharp edges of his face like the dew on the surface of the memorial.  Harrison shivered again.

          Paul's soul was tied to that monument.  Whether it was a chain or a lifeline, Harrison didn't know.  He watched the soldier's lips move as he spoke or prayed, wondering what the words were and glad that he couldn't overhear them.

          With a farewell kiss of palm against the black surface, Ironhorse turned and walked away.  Harrison watched him go, disappearing into the night.

          He should go.  There was nothing holding him there now.  He'd come looking for Paul…

          No.

          He'd come looking for something else.  Understanding.  Explanation.  Answers.

          "Why?" he breathed into the night.

          Without wanting to, he walked forward, stopping at the Wall.  On the ground were the shallow indentations where Ironhorse had knelt.  Harrison studied the ground, wondering which shining drops adorning the grass were his friend's tears.

          Forcing his gaze upward, he looked at the names.  So many names.

          Reaching out, he tried to remember where Paul's fingers had rested.  He closed his eyes, letting his hand move like it was on a Ouija board.

          His fingertips pressed into the groves of a name.  He opened his eyes.  Craig A. Windjoy.

          Paul had never mentioned the man.

          "This is silly," Harrison said, chuckling nervously.  He took a step away from the monument.

          "What are you looking for, Harrison?"

          The scientist felt his heart skip a beat.  _Shit.  He caught me.  I'm out of line._   He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and turned.

          Harrison was surprised to find a young man standing behind him.  About twenty, he wore jungle fatigues and a boonie hat.  Dirt streaked across one cheek gave him a slightly cavalier look.

          "Uh," Harrison said, suddenly afraid.  "How did you know my name?"

          The young man smiled.  "Sorry.  I didn't mean to scare you."

          Harrison's hand closed on the RD.  It was silent.  This was no alien.

          "First time?" the young man asked.

          Harrison nodded.  "I— I sort of came with a friend."

          There was a nod and the flash of a smile.  "Paul Ironhorse."

          Blackwood's eyes widened, then he chuckled and shook his head.  "Guess you saw him…"

The young man shrugged.  "Some of the guys keep an eye out for him.  He's some kind of a hero."

          "Yes, I know."  Harrison felt himself begin to relax.  Obviously the man was involved with the memorial.  "I didn't know they had people out here this late."

          Another shrug and a smile.  "Some us like to hang around and see who the late-night visitors are.  Sometimes they need… a little extra care."

          Harrison nodded.  "Well, I'm fine.  I was just heading back to the hotel."

          "I thought you wanted to understand."

          Blackwood felt the chill rattle him again.  "Understand?" he hedged.

          The young man jerked his head over his shoulder.  "About the Wall."

          "Well, I… I do," Harrison stammered.  "I mean, I know it means a lot to Paul."

          "But you don't know why."

          Harrison heard a faint rushing sound, and wondered briefly if it was real, or just something in his mind.

          "You look at this and you see one big tombstone.  A national scar; a reminder of the biggest mistake this country's ever made…  Well, maybe the second biggest mistake."

          Harrison's eyes flew wide and he took a step closer to the Wall, wishing Ironhorse was close enough to hear a cry for help.  "Who are you?"

          "James Edward Charles Holt, but you can call me Musser."

          "Musser?"

          The man grinned.  "It's a long story, and not the one you came here to hear."

          "How do you know why I'm here?" Harrison challenged.  "How could you?"

          Musser reached out, resting a hand on Blackwood's shoulder.  "Let's just say it's part of what I do.  It's my tour of duty for the time being."

          The rushing grew louder and Harrison swayed.  "I… I… don't understand."

          "I know.  That's why I'm here.  I'm going to show you."

          "Show me what?"

          "What the Wall means to Paul Ironhorse."

          Harrison felt the ground drop out from under him as Musser steered him closer to the Wall, finally stepping through the shining black surface with the scientist in tow.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Harrison blinked against the too-bright sun and tried to suck in a deep breath of the humidity-drenched air.  Color, odors, and a constant loud buzz overloaded his ability to make out where the hell he was.

          "Jesus, man, I'm short!  I'm short and I'm out here like a fuckin' duck in a shootin' gallery."

          "Tommy, you're so short you gotta walk in worm sweat."

"Fucker.  Just wait, man.  _If_ you're lucky you're gonna get short, too, then you ain't gonna want to be out here diddity-bopping in these fuckin' rice patties."

          "Fuckin'-A."

          Harrison stared open-mouthed at the two men as they passed by him.  They obviously didn't see him.  More young men followed.  Each with old eyes set in young faces.  Musser stood nearby, grinning at the conversations.

          Before Blackwood could ask where he was and how he had gotten there the world exploded.  Screams drowned out the explosions.

          Every fiber of the scientist's being demanded he run, but he had no control over his body.  He was paralyzed.  Frozen to the spot, and unable to not watch the events play themselves out.  Musser stood as well, a sad, defeated expression on his face.

          "Tommy!"

          "Trouble!"

          Harrison watched the blood-splattered soldier scramble through the murky paddy water to his friend's side.  Tommy, the boy who was short—

          "That means he's only got a few more months to go before he catches his Freedom Bird," Musser explained.  "The plane back to the States."

          Tommy reached the boy called Trouble and rolled him over, finding half of the boy's body blown away.

          "Oh fuck, oh fuck.  Medic!" Tommy screamed as another round landed in the paddy, sending up a spray of water that rained down on them.

          "Tommy, Tommy, man, you okay?"

          Tommy nodded, trying to find the pressure points that would stop the torrents of blood draining from the tattered body.  "Yeah, yeah.  I'm okay.  I'm okay.  You're gonna be okay.  Medic!"

          "You're gonna make it home, Tommy," Trouble said, a peaceful smile spreading across his face.  "You're so short your gonna grab a bird's balls and fly outta here."

          "Shhh," Tommy pleaded.  "Don't talk, okay?"

          "But I'm gonna beat you home, Tommy.  I'm gonna catch the Freedom Bird…"

          Tommy rocked and moaned, tears washing the blood from his face.  "Damn you, damn you, damn you," he chanted.

          "Tommy?"

          "Yeah," he sobbed.

          "It don't hurt."

          Tommy nodded, his sob sending spittle over his lips.  "Fuckin' rice paddies… fuckin', fuckin', fuckin' bastards!" he screamed.

          "Tommy?"

          He looked down at his friend, watching his eyes drop closed.  "No.  No.  No…"

          "I can fly, Tommy," Trouble said in a whisper.  "I'm flying… it's… it's…"

Tommy reached out, his fingers crushing Trouble's fatigue shirt in his fists.  He hugged the mangled body to his chest and rocked, sobbing as the rounds continued to fall.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Harrison's heart hammered.  He felt the tears as they rolled down his cheeks.  It wasn't right.  It was a waste.

          "Jesus Fuckin' Christ!"

          "Where'd you get these, Sarge?"

          "You're fuckin' beautiful!"

          "Get your goddamned hands off that box, Mull."

          He was out of the paddy.  He was away from the screams, the blood, the death…

          Harrison sucked in a deep breath and ventured a glance around the room he now stood in.  It was a combination of wood and tent.  Cots lined the walls, foot-lockers sitting at attention at the foot of each.  Here and there bits of pieces of Christmas were scattered about: cards, an old red and white sock, a hand drawn angle, Santa face, Christmas tree.

          A group of men stood, huddled around one of the cots.  An man, slightly older than the boys around him, forced the gaggle back with a growled order.  They drifted back, grinning, and retreated to their own bunks.  A few here and there were empty and unmade.

          "Peaches?" Harrison said, reading the stenciled label on the box aloud.

          Musser stepped closer, a wistful expression on his face.  "Yep, peaches."

          "Okay, you miserable animals, break 'em out!" the sergeant barked.

          The soldiers dove for their foot-lockers, rummaging through them until they found the small tins they'd been hording for weeks.  The sergeant waited until they were back on their bunks, faces expectant and young again before he proceeded to distribute the tins of fruit.

          "Peaches and pound cake?" Harrison asked softly.

          Musser nodded.

          How had Debi known?  Blackwood wondered.  It had choked Ironhorse up when he'd opened her gift of peaches and pound cake last Christmas.  It made no sense to Harrison then.

          He looked back to the soldiers.

          "I told you boys that I'd get you peaches for Christmas and by God I did!"

          "You're the best, Sarge!"

          "A fuckin' hero!"

          "All right, all right," the non-com said, waving them to silence.  "Just eat your damned dessert, and let's get some sleep.  Tonight's Christmas, tomorrow we're on patrol."

          There was a chorus of groans.

          "Merry fuckin' Christmas, Uncle Ho!" someone yelled and laughter filled the night.

Looking at the empty bunks, Harrison noted that there were two cans left on each.

          Someone started to sing _Silent Night_.

          Other voices joined, filling the tent and the fear.  There were handshakes, brief hugs, and back-slapping… "Merry Christmas."

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          "Hey, hey, what the hell is that?"

          "What's that asshole doing?"

          "Crazy motherfucker, he's gonna kill himself."

          Harrison looked up with the other men.  They were standing at the edge of a landing area for helicopters.  Above them a Huey was hovering about thirty feet up.  The bird dropped lower, but couldn't land.

          "Miami, what the hell are you doing?"

          Musser laughed.  Harrison looked back at the soldier, noting the amusement on his face.  "What?" he asked.

          "Watch," was Musser's reply.

          Miami hung from one of the Huey's skids by his knees, looking like some kind of insane gymnast.  Bending at the waist he could look up and into the cabin of the chopper.  In his hands he held a 16 mm camera and a Polaroid.

          "Okay, Hillbilly!  Let's do it, man!" Miami yelled.

          "Miami, get your ass back in that bird!" one of the man on the ground yelled.

          "Hey, hey!" he called, twisting down and turning slightly to see the man on the ground.  He snapped off a couple of Polaroid picturess.  "Watch this, man!  It's gonna be fuckin' beautiful!"

          "Get in the bird, asshole!"

          "Hillbilly, where are you, man?" Miami called, twisting back up so the cameras were both pointing at the open door of the chopper.

          Harrison opened his mouth to inquire about the man's sanity when he saw it.  A bare white butt wagging out the open door.

          "Moon over Miami," the cinematographer sang loudly, and off-key.

          The men on the ground burst out laughing.  Two collapsed in the dust, tears streaming down their faces as they snorted, gasped, and choked.

          "Miami, you're crazy!" someone yelled.

          "Fucking, nuts!"

          "I'm gonna be in pictures!" Miami sang out.  "I'm gonna be a star!"

          Harrison couldn't help it.  He laughed, too.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Harrison's smile faded.  He could see by the expressions on the men's faces that there was nothing to smile about here.

          A line of soldiers moved through thick jungle growth, silent and intense.  Their eyes darted back and forth, up and down.  No one spoke.

Musser nodded, and Harrison looked.  It was a Vietnamese village.  They followed as the men entered the small community, fanning out to search the huts and lean-tos.  There was an edge of anticipation.  A tangible element to the fear and excitement, and Blackwood found himself waiting for someone, anyone to jump out and start shooting.

          Each hut, every small fence holding in an animal was searched, and searched again.  Fires burned down and went out.  It was like the people had just evaporated into the thick humidity.  Nothing.

          The men formed up, moving back into the jungle.  One hung back, and using a lighter, set fire to the thatched roofs of the huts.  He faded into the foliage.

          Harrison was behind him, ready to grab and demand an explanation.

          "Think those were the gooks who staked Harry out?"

          The man with the lighter shrugged.  "Closest vill.  Had to be them."

          "Think he was alive when they cut his belly open?"

          Another shrug.  "Don't know."

          "I hope not, man.  Did you see his eyes?"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          A herd of children surged past Harrison.  He was shaking, his imagination still constructing images of the dead soldier, staked out, belly opened, eyes…  What?

          "His eyes said he knew what was coming," Musser said sadly.  "His eyes said he was alive."

          Harrison shuddered, but turned to see where the children were going.  A Jeep pulled into a dusty courtyard, three American soldiers climbing out.  The children engulfed them, squealing in Vietnamese, French and broken English.

          The soldiers smiled and dug into boxes in the back of the vehicle.  Chocolate bars were sent flying into the short, seething crowd.  The children broke, chasing after the treats.  Everyone got one, the soldiers made sure.

          One pulled out two wooden boxes with red crosses painted on the side.  They carried them to long tables that were set up in the shade of a patio overhang.  They were opened, instruments and supplies arranged along the tables.

          "Okay, who's first?"

          The kids surged forward, each willing to volunteer if it meant another piece of candy and friendly hands.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Harrison shook his head.  It was so much more complicated than he'd ever let himself consider.

          "Paul!"

          Blackwood's head snapped up.

          Four men crashed through the jungle, running full bore.  Sweat and dirt streaked their faces and unspeakable fear filled their eyes.  Harrison's gaze locked on Paul's first, then, despite his best intentions, shifted to the other three men.  One was dark like Ironhorse, another Native American.  The second was black.  The third was blond.  Blackwood was sure he couldn't be more than fifteen.

          Several Vietnamese raced out of the leaves behind them, their rifles up.  They fired.

          The blonde tried to scream, but the sound was snuffed out as his chest exploded, showering the plants and ground with blood.  Harrison's arms came up instinctively to cover his face, but none of the life-giving fluid touched him.  The boy collapsed and tumbled, coming to rest in a wasted heap of human potential at Harrison's feet.

          More enemy soldiers appeared, closing in on the three running men from all sides.

          Harrison blinked and he was once again in front of Ironhorse, watching him try to escape.

          Paul's eyes flickered madly, trying to see where all the enemy were.  They widened.  "Craig!" he bellowed.

          The Native American jerked, ducking his head.  A shot sounded, passing over his head.

          "Fuckers!" the black man screamed, janking to the left and charging the first Vietnamese he saw.  "Godamn motherfuckers!"

          "Osborne!" Paul yelled.

          The black man reached the young soldier, too frightened by the deranged expression on Osborne's face to shoot him.  The black man's hands closed on the boy's throat.  Another shot and they both fell.  Dead.

          The two Americans pushed harder.  Shots missed.  The circle closed.  Craig tripped.  Paul was there, scooping him up, the pair stumbling off together.  The panic shifted to desperation and… hopelessness.

          "Run, Paul!" Harrison called, his breath catching in his throat.  He couldn't hear the gunshot anymore, his heart beat, pounding in his ears left him deaf.  "Run, damn you!"

          Another shot and Craig fell, his hands squeezing at his leg. "Go!" he screamed.  "Go!"

          Ironhorse looked back, but kept running.  Turning back Harrison could see the tears that drained from Paul's eyes, flying off his temples as he tried to escape.

          "Run, Paul!" Blackwood yelled, his hand coming up.  He reached out to Ironhorse, but no matter how fast he ran, he never got any closer to the straining fingers.

          Paul's gaze locked on Harrison's and he reached up, stretching his hand out as far as he could, the tip almost meeting Blackwood's.

          "Paul!"

          Harrison saw it in Ironhorse's eyes – the futility.  He felt the briefest hint of a breeze brush across his fingers.

          "Paul!"

          Harrison's eyes squeezed shut and he felt the hot tears squeeze out.  He sucked in a breath and sobbed.

          It wasn't right!  It wasn't fair!

He knew what happened next.  P.O.W.  Paul, tortured by the Viet Cong, nearly crippled, and Craig…

          His eyes opened and he blinked.  His fingers were pressed into the groves of the name.  Craig A. Windjoy.

          He pressed his hand against the cold stone and let himself slide down to rest on his knees.  Pressing his forehead against the Wall, he cried, his tears falling to join Ironhorse's in the grass.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Harrison took a deep breath and held it.  He wasn't sure how long he'd been kneeling in the wet grass, but his knees and feet ached with cold.  With effort he forced himself to stand.

          The silence was oddly comforting.  He glanced around, then down at his watch.  Twenty minutes after midnight.  That was impossible!

          And where was Musser?

          He looked for the man, but there was no one.  Nothing except the lights, the monument, and Harrison.

          Tugging his handkerchief free, Blackwood wiped his face, blew his nose, then looked back at the Wall.  He shivered.

          "Doctor, what're you doing out here?"

          Harrison turned.  Ironhorse, and he looked worried.  "Nothing, Paul, I…  I just… wanted to come pay my respects."

          The colonel nodded, a hint of suspicion in his eyes.

Blackwood winced mentally.  He couldn't really blame Paul for that.  After all, he hadn't understood…

          "Would you like me to leave you alone?" Paul asked.

          "No!" Blackwood answered too quickly.  He looked away, embarrassed.  "I mean, I'd like you to stay…"  He looked up.  "If you wouldn't mind."

          Ironhorse shook his head slightly, still uncertain.

          Harrison swallowed, then stepped forward, taking Ironhorse's shoulders in his hands.  "Welcome home, Paul," he said softly, his voice catching.

          Before he or Ironhorse realized what was happening, Harrison drew the colonel into a quick, firm embrace.  "And thank you," the civilian whispered.

          Paul's hands came up, cautious as he returned the hug, then patted Blackwood's back before he stepped free of the embrace.  "Harrison, are you okay?"

          Blackwood nodded, then wiped his eyes again before folding his arms across his chest.  "Man, it's freezing out here."

          "It is cold," Paul agreed.  "Why don't we head back to the hotel?"  He studied Blackwood's face.  Had he been crying?  His gaze flickered to the black surface, catching sight of Craig's name.  "I'll buy you a cup of coffee if the café is still open."

          "I'd appreciate that, Paul."

          Ironhorse nodded and turned, heading off.  Harrison glanced back once, hoping to find the young man, but only his and Paul's reflections were there.

          "Thank you, Musser," he whispered.  "Wherever you are.

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          The day was bright and crisp.  The Mall was busy, many of the people who had come for the re-dedication of the Wall still there, visiting the memorial one last time before they left.  The Blackwood Project members strolled among the people, there to say their own goodbyes.

          Norton and Coleman veered off, Derriman and Debi stopping to appreciate the reflection of the Washington Monument.  Suzanne and General Wilson spoke softly in front of one panel, the General occasionally reaching out to caress his son's name.

          Ironhorse held back, content to watch the others.  Harrison stood with him for a time, then walked down to talk to the marine who stood with the book of names.

          Reaching the man, Harrison smiled.  "Good morning."

          "Good morning, sir," the young soldier replied.  "Can I help you find a particular name on the wall?"

          Harrison thought for a moment, unsure why he'd even sought the soldier and his book out.  He didn't have anyone on the Wall.

          "Hmm…"

          A young woman in her late twenties or early thirties walked up.

          "Why don't you help this young lady first," Harrison said.

          She smiled at him.  "Thanks."  Looking at the Marine she sighed self-consciously.  "I'm looking for Musser—"  She stopped and Harrison felt his knees go weak.  "Sorry," she apologized.  "I'm looking—"

          "Who was he?" Harrison interrupted.

          "Sir, are you feeling okay?" the Marine asked.  "You look a little pale.  Why don't you have a seat in the grass.  First time visits can be a little intense."

          The young woman looked slightly startled, but escorted Harrison to the grass and sat with him.  "He was my cousin," she said.  "But I guess he was really more like a brother…"

 

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

 

          Ironhorse watched Harrison talking with a young lady, and wondered what the astrophysicist was up to.  Yesterday he might have attributed less than honorable intentions to the civilian, but not today.  Harrison Blackwood had been moved by the Wall last night.  He wasn't sure how, or why, but Harrison had come away… different.  It was a change for the better.

          His gave flickered to the panel where the names of the dead from November 1972 were etched.  A thin smile shaped his lips.  Craig A. Windjoy.  Friend.  Brother.  Something more.

          "Rest well, my friend," he said softly, and looking, was sure he saw Craig's face reflecting off the black stone.


End file.
